That tattered, and weathered dream returns. It is of a world with no top or bottom nor an east or a west, and when the winged residents begin their murmurings I try hard to hear what is being passed on before it becomes a silhouette fainting back into the fog and gone once again.
Today, the metaphors are streaking meteors burning and flashing across those black-white spaces between stars and words. Outside the window weather slices the season in two. All day long, crowds of clouds have been pushing across the landscape of that windswept dream.
My memory stumbles into a darkroom hung with blurry prints; familiar faces, but out of focus. It is a deep sea for many moons to float on and the stars are silver stitching holding the night sky together. Here is where zero is only one-half of infinity. Time is the other half. Times taken for the tiny privacies of smallest moods; those loose threads on wrinkled lines bumming-up the page with rambling soliloquies disturbed and discordant, having been derived from a confusion of trivialities.
And then, there is the true loner who surrounds himself with ghosts. I am a ghost surrounding myself with humanity, checking into the same crowded dream every night with my heavy suitcase loaded down with one life’s perfusion of horizons. I’ll settle in, listening for a whirl in the wind; it is those elusive words buzzing by just out of memory’s reach.
Dirk James lives in San Leandro, California.